


all the rivers sound in my body

by BeepGrandCherokeeper



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Bottom Hank, M/M, One Night Stands, Strangers to Lovers, Top Connor, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 23:43:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20105593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeepGrandCherokeeper/pseuds/BeepGrandCherokeeper
Summary: Hank is no stranger to wedding hook-ups. He just hasn’t had one since the divorce, since his son was born. Maybe in fifteen years.The man who saunters up to him seems to be looking to change that."Hi,” he says, a rasp in his voice like he’s been smoking since the day he was born. “You wanna dance?”





	all the rivers sound in my body

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plutoandpersephone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutoandpersephone/gifts).

> This fic is for the wonderful Pluto, whose birthday it is! Pluto's friendship has come to mean a lot to me, and they've been better and more loving than I honestly know what to do with. This is for them. All my love and thanks also to Mao and Beth, with whom Pluto and I came up with this idea. They fleshed it out in huge ways, and so this is both for them and by them, also.

Hank’s no stranger to wedding hook-ups. In the wilder days of his twenties and thirties, when it seemed like everyone he knew was getting married, he never left a reception alone. Bridesmaids, groomsmen, wedding guests whose stares had lingered a little too long to be an accident - he’d even had a few relationships start with a drunken fuck in a less than pristine hotel room. That was how he met the bride at this wedding - Carol. A sweet woman ten years his junior, she’d seen him in his tux with his hair pulled back and given him a nervous smile. They dated a little longer than a year before they mutually agreed to call it quits… and here they are, nearly two decades later.

“Glad you came,” Carol says. She kisses him on the cheek before she sits in an empty chair, her face flushed with the heat of a crowded room and what looks like a genuine joy. “You having fun?”

“How could I not?” Hank laughs. He takes a drink of crisp, cool water, ignoring the little part of him that wants to be at the open bar. “You’ve got other guests, babe, don’t waste your time on me.”

“I can make time for you.”

From across the room, her new husband lets out a delighted yell as someone walks up and throws their arms around him. Carol props up her chin on one hand, her eyes soft.

“He’s good?” Hank asks.

“Yeah,” she sighs. She pats his arm. “Drew’s real good.”

Hank watches them on the dance floor later, her cheek pressed to Drew’s chest while they sway. He’s not quite so tall as Hank, but close - she’s always had a type. The memory makes him laugh. It’s nice to see her so happy.

No, he’s no stranger to wedding hook-ups. He just hasn’t had one since the divorce, since his son was born. Maybe in fifteen years.

The man who saunters up to him seems to be looking to change that.

“Hi,” he says, a rasp in his voice like he’s been smoking since the day he was born. “You wanna dance?”

He’s handsome. Brown hair falls artfully over his forehead, accentuating equally brown eyes blown wide and almost certainly mascaraed. Soft, plush lips curl in a gentle smirk. It’s hard to see through the dim lighting in this hotel ballroom, but his trousers are clearly a pale shade of blue, and the jacket he’s discarded somewhere probably matches. This is the best man.

“Sorry, kid,” Hank says, tearing his gaze away with a wrench in his gut. The guy’s too pretty to look at directly, but somehow it hurts to do anything else. “I’m not drunk enough for that.”

“Then I’ll get you another. What have you got?”

Hank winces. He shouldn’t have said anything. “It’s just water.”

The best man looks from the glass to Hank’s face. To his credit, he doesn’t seem to take offense. He shrugs gracefully, places a hand on Hank’s table, and turns to look around the room. Hank recognizes one of his own moves - staying rooted while your eyes wander, so the other person doesn’t think you’ve lost interest.

“Smart,” he says. “On the rocks?”

“It was. Melted pretty quick.”

“Must have hot hands.” The guy winks. He _ winks_. “I’ll get you another. Don’t move?”

He leaves with a press of his fingers to Hank’s arm, a quick squeeze, like a promise.

Hank should bail, he really should. He’s too old and fucked up to have young things throwing themselves at him now. Where would he find the energy, emotional or otherwise, to handle this six foot twink the way he clearly wants to be handled…

But Hank’s still there when he comes back with two glasses of water. He gets the guy’s name - Connor, he says, leaning in and practically breathing it - and they talk. They talk about the best man speech, which was both funny and loving, and about how Hank knows the bride. Some of the finer details get glossed over in the retelling, which Connor seems to sense somehow, but it doesn’t matter much. In the end, Hank winds up on the dance floor anyway, hands on Connor’s waist while they weave through couples and brave singles, still having a conversation. It gets hard to hear over the music, and shouting becomes whispering into each other’s ears, and Hank’s feeling the heat so intensely that he pulls away to pop a few buttons on his shirt.

“Sorry,” he says, when Connor finds him up leaning against a wall. Hank’s catching the breeze from an air vent somewhere, trying to cool down. He can feel sweat beading on his brow. “Got too hot.”

Connor hums. He turns his face into the stream of chilly air, closing his eyes for a moment. With the way his head’s tipped to the side, Hank can see the lines of his neck in stark relief, like they’re begging to be touched with a finger or a tongue. There’s no way Connor isn’t aware of the picture he paints. He opens his eyes slowly to glance sideways at Hank before he steps closer, holding up a steady hand.

“I like this look,” he says. At Hank’s raised eyebrow, Connor puts his hand on Hank’s sternum, in the deep vee created by undone buttons. The tips of his fingers get lost in the thicket of his chest hair.

“Connor,” Hank murmurs.

He’s still gorgeous - more so, maybe, since he’s been sweating and his hair is a little damp. Hank knows what it feels like to have Connor’s arms around his neck, now, and what it’s like to have his full attention, and the worst thing is that he likes it. He wants more of it.

Connor scratches a blunt nail down Hank’s chest, nudging a little bit closer. “You know, I’m hot, too. Too many people in here.”

Oh, Christ. Hank shifts in place. His pants are starting to get a little tight. “You wanna relocate?”

“Do you?” Connor asks. “I like you, Hank. You seem to like me, too.”

Hank thinks back to what he remembers about the speech Connor gave earlier - his genial smile, the way his face split open like a burst of sunshine when he laughed. How he’d listened to him talk and felt… at ease. Like he was with a friend. Chatting with him at the table, dancing with him, standing with him the way they are? It only made that feeling stronger.

“I do,” he says. “Like you, I mean. And I… If you want to, you know, go… somewhere…”

He’s fucking destroying himself. He can’t stop stammering, unable to control the way his mouth is running away, and Connor watches him with a quirk to his own mouth and one eyebrow. Leaning in, slowly, he puts his mouth to Hank’s ear the way they’d done on the dance floor. “Okay,” he says, warm breath on Hank’s ear making the hairs on his neck rise. “My room is close.”

It’s hard to believe that Hank used to be the suave one. He lets Connor tug him out of the ballroom by the wrist, leading him down the hall, and he digs around inside himself for the confidence he used to have. It isn’t that he doesn’t want Connor - he does, so badly it makes his tongue feel like a weight in his mouth - but none of his old hook ups had felt like this. It was easy to play the seducer, the aggressor, and _ fuck _ doesn’t that make it sound gross when all he wanted was to pick somebody up and show them a good time. He has to believe that once they get to a bed, he’ll figure himself out somehow. Otherwise, he’s afraid Connor’s going to be very disappointed.

They walk up a flight of stairs rather than waiting for the elevator, which leaves Hank panting. Connor laughs. He’s a bit breathless himself, thank fuck. “Come on,” he says, using his grip on Hank to pull him in. Their bodies press together for a moment, a delicious second or two of contact, and then they separate again. “I’m right here.”

Hank can’t decide if that’s meant to be reassuring or a statement of fact, but before he figures it out, Connor’s digging in a pants pocket to find his room key.

“Here,” he pants, shoving the door open. “Hank, please-”

He pulls him close again until Hank’s got him pushed against the open door, sharing air in an intimate space, on the threshold between exposure and privacy, and - Hank can’t take it anymore. He touches his mouth to Connor’s, gasping like he’s been shocked when Connor parts his lips immediately.

“Please,” Connor says again, muffled against Hank’s mouth. He bites at Hank’s lower lip, a sharp nip that sends all the blood in Hank’s brain swiftly downward.

“Holy shit,” Hank grumbles. “In-”

Shoving Connor backward, he expects to crowd him into the room and pin him on the bed, taking control as he’s always done. It’s what his partners want, to be enveloped, to feel small, protected, taken care of, broken down and shaken apart - but Connor consistently surprises him. Before his sluggish mind has shaken off the euphoria of making out with a gorgeous young thing like he’s twenty-five again, Connor’s twisted in his arms and moved them around so he’s the one leading Hank backwards across the floor. His tongue swipes over Hank’s, sinful and sweet, teeth still making sharp appearances around his mouth and down his throat, and Hank doesn’t know what to do but cling to him and try to keep up.

Connor puts his hand in the vee of Hank’s shirt again, running his fingers through the hair there before he ducks under the fabric and gets a solid grip on Hank’s pec. Nobody’s touched him like that in years - and then his legs hit something and he nearly falls over, flailing a little, before Connor catches him by the elbows.

“Whoops,” Connor laughs, smiling affectionately. “Should have warned you.” He helps Hank sit on the bed, standing over him as he slides his hands from Hank’s arms to his shoulders.

Hank thinks to take a quick look at their surroundings - a made queen bed, comfortable enough, a suitcase lying open on an armchair, and not much else that he can see in the dark. He considers asking Connor to put a light on, but… maybe it doesn’t matter. Connor shines like this, his pale, freckled skin practically luminescent in the moonlight. The prettiest thing in any room.

“This still all right?” Connor asks him. He has one knee on the bed, on the other side of Hank’s leg, but he isn’t moving any closer.

Hank nods. “It’s great.” His hands start at Connor’s waist, so slim he imagines his fingers touching at the back and feels a thrill of desire. Grasping at the fabric, he starts to tug the dress shirt out from where it’s tucked, but Connor takes his hands and threads their fingers together. It’s… gentle, for a semi-anonymous fuck, and more tender than he remembers this usually being.

“I was thinking.” Connor brings Hank’s hand to his lips, kissing the back of it, his knuckles, the tip of a finger. Hank thinks for a moment that he’s going to suck that finger right into his mouth, and that horrifies him in a distinctly tempting way, but it never quite gets that far. “What if you took your clothes off for me?”

Hank thinks he makes the old dial up sound out loud.

“You mean strip?” he chokes, taking his hand back. Connor lets him go.

“Only if you want to. I just thought…” He shrugs again, but it’s not so graceful as before. It’s almost self-conscious, protective. “I want to see you.”

“Fuck,” Hank says aloud. He thought he’d come in here and take control, figure out a way to be in charge like he believed everyone wants, but Connor… well. “Yeah. Yeah, honey, okay. Is that what you want?”

Connor nods. His hands find Hank again, tracing down from the hollow of his neck to the first of his still done up buttons. Still rasping, his voice pours over Hank like honey, sweet and so thick Hank feels like he could drown in it. “Please, baby. I want to see everything.”

The shirt goes first. Connor pulls the buttons so hard Hank thinks they might come right off, so he chases Connor’s hands away and undoes them himself. Once he’s free of the shirt, leaving it on the bed, he starts to fumble with the zipper on his pants. Connor, laughing, reaches behind him to throw the shirt across the room.

“Your shoes,” he murmurs, even as he strokes Hank’s chest with feather-light touches. “Planning to get your pants off over your shoes?”

Hank feels his face go red and swears to himself, bending down to fight with the knot on his laces. Connor steps back to watch him. It’s definitely less sexy than he might have wanted, and Hank feels like half an idiot, but when he looks up to see if Connor’s lost interest, he’s still smiling. Shifting his weight from foot to foot like he’s coiled and waiting to spring.

The shoes go somewhere, Hank can’t be sure - under the bed, maybe - and his socks get left on the floor. Then, finally, he can tend to his trousers. Connor helps with that, hands on his hips until the pants are loose enough to wriggle off. To Hank’s surprise, Connor hooks the waistband of his briefs as they go, pulling them down past his thighs and pausing only for a second before he and Hank get them all the way off.

“Wow,” Connor says.

Hank huffs a laugh and pushes down the temptation to cover his groin, to cross his legs, anything that takes him out of direct scrutiny.

“Your turn?”

Connor hums, his eyes roving over Hank like he wants to eat him for dinner. “Actually,” he says. He sinks down onto the bed and perches in Hank’s lap, the fine fabric of his blue suit pants soft against Hank’s exposed thighs. Hank grabs him around the waist again to hold him steady, even as he shudders. Connor holds himself perfectly positioned above Hank’s dick, just close enough for him to feel the ghost of sensation but not so near for any friction. It makes him want to scream.

“You’re fucking with me,” Hank breathes, shaking again when Connor slides his hands over his collarbones, past his shoulders, and down to his back.

“Eventually.”

He kisses Hank’s neck, mouth open and tongue tracing indiscernible patterns on Hank’s skin, resting hot and wanting over the spot where his pulse pounds. Hank can’t move, at first, helpless against the sudden onslaught, still reeling from this complete subversion of his expectations. He thought he knew - but he didn’t, is what matters, and now he’s here with an eager man on top of him. Reciprocation, his muddled brain finally reminds him, Connor would probably like him to reciprocate.

“Hey,” he grunts, sliding a hand up to rest at the small of Connor’s back. “You want-?”

“Shh.”

Connor licks up his neck and into his beard, nuzzling into the stubble there and probably giving himself one hell of a beard burn. He doesn’t seem to mind at all. Hank groans. It becomes a yelp when something tugs at one of Hank’s nipples, a sharp pinch that makes him rock up into the air. Connor seems to anticipate his response, rolling his own hips backward so Hank gets no gratification.

“I want you like this,” Connor says. He pulls at the same nipple again, pinching it hard between his thumb and finger. Hank arches his back, his eyes sliding shut. “Exactly like this.”

Who is Hank to say no? He wants it, too.

Connor rebukes every attempt Hank makes to touch him. He gently nudges his hands back into place, leans so Hank’s lips can’t reach his neck. The only concessions he makes to how badly Hank’s trying his patience are the way he’s still sweating, eyes blown wide, tie loose around his neck - and the swell of his dick in his pants, when Hank manages to feel it. It isn’t often. Connor massages the meat of his thighs, runs his hands up and down Hank’s stomach, takes his chest in his mouth, but any contact with Hank’s groin is purely incidental.

The third time Hank jerks up in search of relief and whines, another thing he might not have expected before tonight, Connor sweetly kisses his cheek and encourages him down toward the mattress.

“I don’t want you to touch,” Connor says, pushing Hank up toward the pillows. Hank cooperates, but only a little. It’s thrilling, how easily Connor handles him, how the evident difference in their weight and age seems like it doesn’t matter at all. “We’ll find something for you to do later, but for now?” He takes Hank’s wrists and pins them to the bed, thin fingers like delicate bars on a cage. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

With that, he plants himself back in Hank’s lap, and he bends in half to bring Hank’s chest to his mouth. There are teeth this time, pressing gently into his skin just on the other side of his nipple, and Connor sucks like he wants Hank to bruise - and he will, he realizes, if Connor keeps going. The thought makes Hank moan aloud, makes him throw his head back.

Connor disconnects with a lewd sound, looking up at Hank with his gorgeous doe eyes and a faint flush on his cheeks. He has beautiful cheekbones, Hank decides, to go with his beautiful everything else. If he could, Hank would reach out and touch them, cup them in his hands and bring him in for a kiss.

“Is this okay?” Connor asks.

Hank needs a moment to catch up. Connor, as good now at knowing him than any lover had been after months of a relationship, bends down and kisses the reddened skin he’d left behind.

“I wanted to mark you up from the minute I saw you. Thought you’d look pretty with a few hickeys. I think I was right.”

Hank flexes against Connor’s grip. He doesn’t want to break away, or to do anything Connor hasn’t asked of him, but he needs - he _ needs_.

“Fuck,” he says, pushing his chest in the air so Connor will touch it again, “yes, please.”

Connor leaves that bruise after all, giving it an extra livid hue as an apology for breaking away and for not asking first. He leaves others as well, eventually letting go of Hank’s wrists so he can balance. Hank grabs his own hair when Connor situates himself over one of Hank’s legs and bites a mark into Hank’s thigh, near enough his dick that he can feel Connor’s breath.

The tie comes off, after that. Then Connor’s shirt goes, and fuck, he’s slim and lovely and those freckles and moles go everywhere. There’s a particularly appealing one right at the base of his sternum, a little spot of color Hank wants to frame like fine art. He still won’t touch, even though he wants to see what his hand looks like against Connor’s skin, to know how he might react after all this time ramping both of their desires up beyond control.

Connor rolls off the bed, leaving Hank behind with a quick kiss dropped at random. It lands on his stomach.

“Come back,” Hank croaks, suddenly aware of how he must look. Fifty-three years old, divorced and a father, prematurely grey, and by no means a small man - and yet he’s lying flat on a strange man’s mattress, where he’d been told to stay, his dick jutting up into the air and hard enough to cut diamonds.

But then, Connor isn’t a strange man. Not really.

He should be; they’ve known each other for no more than two hours. Hank doesn’t know where he comes from, or what his last name is, and he doesn’t know whether this will matter in the morning at all. But when Connor’s eyes meet his again, as he pulls a condom packet and a travel sized tube of lube from his suitcase, he feels like he’s somewhere safe. Like he’s with someone he’s known for a very long time.

Christ.

“Are you gonna fuck me?” Hank asks. 

It’s safer than asking if Connor feels the same way he does. He wants to know, or at least he thinks he does… but not yet. Not now, when he hasn’t had any attention paid to his dick for what feels like days, and he’s desperate for _ something_.

Connor throws the lube and the condom on the bed. Stripping off his pants, he reveals underwear that Hank can’t quite wrap his mind around - there’s lace, he thinks, some kind of panel at the back he can’t see right for the shadows in the room. Before he can get a better look, they’re gone, too, disappeared somewhere into the darkness.

Connor’s dick isn’t quite what he would have expected.

Then again, he hasn’t correctly anticipated anything about tonight, so it makes sense this would be no different.

It’s uncut, for one thing, which is something Hank hasn’t seen in an incredibly long time. He likes the look of it, though, a little short and curving gently to one side. It contrasts his own nicely, slim where Hank’s dick is thick, and the hair around it trimmed neatly because of _ course _ it is. Hank wants in his mouth. As soon as possible. He might be in love with that dick.

Still, Connor has yet to answer him. If Hank has a choice, any choice, he mostly wants it inside.

Connor climbs onto the bed. Kneeling, he looks down at Hank from above, his hair curling a bit where sweat’s washed the gel away. “Is that okay?” he asks. His voice is soft, careful. Hank expected him to keep the control thing going, to push his domineering streak all the way through to the end, but this is just… romantic.

Hank reaches up. He hesitates, just for a moment, but when Connor makes no protests, he puts a hand low in the space between Connor’s stomach and hip. “It’s okay,” he says, stroking Connor’s skin with his thumb. It jumps under his touch. “I want you to.”

Connor has Hank flip over so he’s on his stomach, pillows positioned carefully under his head and groin. Another is set by in case Connor wants him on his knees, and Hank would protest at all this careful treatment, but when a lubed up finger sinks into his ass with less trouble than he might have guessed, he forgets all his complaints. It feels strange, at first, too long since the last time anybody’s touched him there. He waits for it to get better, sure that it will, and is rewarded for his patience when he realizes one isn’t enough. He wants more. Connor obliges, adding another finger, and a third, and Hank buries his face in the pillow with a wavering sigh.

“Holy fuck,” he exhales, squeezing his eyes shut. His hips jerk against the pillow, and there it is - the relief he’s been chasing all night, stimulation, pleasure rocketing to the very center of his brain. Abruptly, he realizes why Connor wouldn’t let him touch himself. This is going to be over too soon. “Connor, please-”

“Okay,” Connor says.

There’s some shifting on the bed behind Hank, then over and around Hank, and Connor drapes himself along Hank’s back like a blanket. Like he belongs there. He wraps his arm under Hank’s, clutching at his shoulder with his elbow on the bed for leverage, and slowly, slowly, he eases himself in. Hank bites down against a cry.

“It’s okay,” Connor says again, whispering it. As soon as he’s as deep as he can go, flush against Hank’s ass, he brings his other arm up and holds on tight. He peppers kisses over Hank’s shoulder blades. “I want you to make noise, Hank, please - tell me how it feels. Tell me it feels good.”

It does. It feels amazing, better than Hank can remember sex feeling in his whole life. He starts to say so, but Connor withdraws enough to rock back in, and any coherent thoughts spin right out of his mind. Instead, he groans, long and deep, and says, “Baby.”

Connor fucks into him a little harder for his trouble. It pushes Hank’s dick down into the pillow, another jolt of pleasure twisting his moan into something like a snarl.

“Please,” Connor says, with no other request attached. He’s pumping in a rhythm now. It isn’t steady, but that means that Hank is surprised _ again _, several times over, when Connor goes from fucking him so hard their skin slaps together to rolling against him, an ocean wave. All Hank can do is hang on, biting his own lip so hard he thinks he’ll break the skin.

His hips start to move of their own accord, thighs trembling, feeling his skin jiggle with the effort to keep himself under control.

“Oh, fuck,” he says aloud.

That’s all the warning either of them has.

Hank comes like a freight train’s hit him, in a sudden punch that overwhelms him for a long instant and then leaves as quickly as it came. Blood rushes in his ears, his heart pounding, and he slowly realizes that the long, thin, reedy sound that hasn’t stopped is his own voice. Lifting himself up with shivering arms, he checks, as if he needs confirmation.

His belly is sticky from where he’s spilled right onto the pillow.

Connor kisses the back of his neck, lips parted, tasting the sweat there. There’s no way he didn’t notice.

He doesn’t want Connor to be disappointed.

“Stop,” he says, just as Connor starts to pull out.

Connor lifts up off him, still connected at the hips. “Are you hurt?”

Hank realizes that he’ll still have to disengage for a moment to turn around. The thought makes him wince. Determined, though, to prove that he’s still in this, he carefully pulls himself away and flips on the mattress, setting them both bouncing when he lands. Connor looks beautiful like this - he always looks beautiful, Hank’s starting to learn, but there’s something distinctly appealing about the way his mouth hangs open, the fire still burning in his bright brown eyes. He looks exhausted, and he looks Hank over with a wary eye, but he doesn’t seem to be upset that Hank’s cut their fun short.

His dick, Hank notes, craning his neck, is still hard.

“Come here,” Hank says, wrapping his arms around Connor’s neck. Connor goes where he asks, closing his eyes when Hank kisses him. Against his mouth, Hank whispers, “Keep going.”

Connor draws away, blinking at him. “That’s not going to be comfortable for you.”

“I’m fine.” Hank gets a handful of Connor’s ass and pushes him closer, tighter, so that there’s less space between them. “I want you to keep going.”

Connor doesn’t need much cajoling. Dropping his forehead down to rest in the crook of Hank’s neck, he slides back into Hank with almost no trouble. It is - a lot, for lack of a better term. Hank’s still dealing with the aftermath of being run over by orgasm, a little shaky and more than a little out of his own head, and his lingering sensitivity makes each drag of Connor’s dick inside him feel like exquisite torture.

He wants it, though. He wants all of it, just like he had from the start. He wants the overwhelming feeling of falling, tumbling over an edge and knowing there’s something to catch him.

Connor licks over a sore spot, probably one of his love bites from earlier, and lets out a high-pitched moan that tells Hank he’s not far off from his own climax. Hank grabs his ass again, squeezing it, touching where he couldn’t earlier.

“You’re so good,” he says, almost on a whim. He remembers Connor asking to hear what Hank thought, how he felt, and it’s the truth. “This is - Connor, so fucking good.”

Connor gasps, gaping, stuttering against the cradle of Hank’s open legs. “Again,” he says, blindly finding Hank’s mouth with his own.

Hank can’t talk with Connor’s tongue down his throat, so he waits until Connor grunts with effort and drops his head down again. They’re forehead to forehead. Connor’s arms wrap around Hank like he can’t imagine not touching him, like he wants to sink beneath his skin and never be free again. Hank understands it. He feels it, too.

This is something unique. Maybe it’s a stupid thought, but he still lets it stay.

“Be good,” Hank says, burying his fingers in Connor’s curls, stroking him soothingly. He feels like he’s about to fall apart again, _ again_, even if it’s too soon and there’s no way he’s still hard. It doesn’t matter. Hank can hold it together for him, just a little longer. “Come for me, honey.”

It isn’t instantaneous. Connor needs a little more time before he’s ready, but it really is only a little. He drives deep into Hank a few more times, wringing a last burst of intense, overwhelming pleasure from Hank as he twitches and wonders if this is what it’s like to come dry. More importantly, though, Connor is finally panting harshly against Hank’s neck, all of his composure completely gone. He pulls Hank closer, so close that nothing could fit between them, and he quivers, and goes completely silent and still.

Hank wishes they could have done without the condom. He would have liked to feel Connor come inside him, even if he used to hate the mess, but this is good enough. He rubs the flat of his palms down Connor’s back, murmuring praise and other nothings, until Connor kisses the underside of his chin, beard bristles and all. Rolling away, leaving Hank uncomfortably empty, Connor flops onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.

They stay like that for some time. Eventually, Connor mumbles something about disposing of the condom, but he only gets up long enough to grab a box of hotel-provided tissues and to throw the condom in the trash. Tossing the box on the bed reminds Hank of how he’d thrown down the lube, and of the sticky mess still on his belly, and Hank knows he ought to get up and wipe himself down. Instead, he uses the tissues, and is secretly pleased when Connor falls right back onto the mattress.

Once he’s clean, and the tissues are crumpled up and held awkwardly in his hand - at home, he’d leave them on the floor until morning, but this is still Connor’s hotel room - Hank glances over at Connor. He’s staring at the ceiling, a hand on his chest as he breathes, rising and falling.

“You know-” Hank starts. He can’t find the rest of the words.

Connor rolls onto his side, humming. Hank doesn’t know if he wants to say the rest of it, to risk what he feels here thrumming between them… but he’s not a young man anymore. He doesn’t want to sit around and see what happens, or worse, to let it slip by and regret that forever.

Hank drags a hand down his face, scrubbing away the last evidence of his concern, and rolls on his side, too.

“I’ve never had a night like that before.”

Connor laughs, a little. It’s not unkind, or dismissive, but otherwise Hank can’t be sure what it means. “You’ve never let somebody fuck you?”

That makes Hank laugh, too. “No. Not that.”

They look at each other, eyes meeting in the dark, and Hank has the strong sensation of… well. He’d call it _ being known_. Connor understands him, just like he thinks he sees something in Connor that makes perfect sense to him. Something that feels like it fits.

Even with his ex, with the men and women he’d dated, the people he’d loved, he never felt anything like this.

Connor takes the box of tissues between them and throws it over the side of the bed.

“I know,” he says softly. “I - yeah. I know.”

Hank’s used tissues end up on the floor anyway. Connor takes them out of his hand against protest and discards them, laughing when Hank calls him gross. Awkwardly, they both squirm their way beneath the covers without getting out of bed, and it only takes a few seconds’ worth of consideration before Connor opens his arms. Hank goes, pulling Connor into his chest and kissing the top of his head.

“Will you be here tomorrow morning?” Hank asks. He means it literally, wondering how long Connor’s staying at this hotel, but Connor looks up at him like Hank asked if he hung the moon.

Smiling, Connor says, “And the mornings after that, if you want.”

There’s no way to respond to that. It is what Hank wants, in the deepest places of his heart, but he doesn’t allow himself to say so. Instead, he kisses Connor on the forehead, and slots himself into place when Connor turns his back and pushes against him.

Fucked within an inch of his life, and still the big spoon.

Hank breathes in the product in Connor’s hair, listens as he gently snores, and closes his eyes so he can sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> And when you appear  
All the rivers sound  
In my body, bells  
Shake the sky,  
And a hymn fills the world.  
Only you and I,  
Only you and I, my love,  
Listen to me.
> 
> -La Reina, Pablo Neruda


End file.
